Unit 731
by Aspidochelone
Summary: Progress is never made faster than by those who are blind to consequences.


Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

The stench of carrion was thick in the air. Wretched and bloody, it flooded the dry arid land with a sick smell. The red earth of the desert soil seemed to exude the disgusting odor as though it had literally been painted scarlet in some violent and gory massacre. Not a single creature could be seen anywhere in the area, repelled by the ill stench. Even the straggled desert trees looked as though they were desperate to be somewhere else, their leaves wilted and brown. That Mowan had picked up the foul reek from kilometers away was testament to its power.

Padding though the rocky landscape as quietly as he could, the young aboriginal man made his way towards what he assumed was the source of the stench. His dark skin slick with sweat, he shined in the sun as he had removed his shirt long ago to use the cloth as a muffle for his nose.

Mowan was not a hunter. He carried no weapon, not even a knife. But his family had always been true to their native roots, and he knew how to approach a place undetected and downwind. Keeping low to the ground, he did his best to stay inside the slowly disappearing shadows of the rock pillars that dominated the landscape around him.

'Good lord, wha' a god awful mess this has got to be!' He shuddered in thought. 'Damn poachers must've got themselves a whole truck full o' critters.'

Lately, the area around Mowan's home town had seen a great deal of poaching. The locals would find a pile of carcasses somewhere in the scrubs, the heads and hides taken for trophies. The size of the rotting smell Mowan had stumbled upon told him that it could only be another scene of senseless slaughter perpetrated by the troublesome hunters, not a normal kill made by a local predator.

Stepping up the last few meters of the steep natural path he was following, the young man fought back the urge to vomit his breakfast onto the ground. Steadying himself with a hand on the rock face to his left, he made his way down into the small semi-enclosed area he had discovered.

Body parts littered the earth. Pieces of bone and gore lay baking in the noon day sun, some in knee high piles. The remains of at least a dozen different species could be identified, from buffalo and kangaroos to snakes and lizards. The mostly intact body of a dingo lay not far from Mowan's foot, and he cautiously nudged it to confirm its dead state.

"_Bloody hell…_" He whispered to no one. He had not been prepared for this level of carnage. Looking over the scene carefully to be sure no human remains were in evidence, Mowan noticed a strange fact: There were no flies.

At least, not enough of them alive. A few of the buzzing pests could be seen on some of the bodies, but for the most part the flies constituted nothing more than a littering of dead black specks on the ground. What could have possibly killed them all off Mowan didn't know.

Having seen enough, Mowan quickly made his exit back the way he had come.

'That isn't any poacher kill, for damn sure,' the now jogging man concluded. 'That was… I don't know!' He failed to find any explanation for what could have caused the grizzly scene. Certainly no animal could have amassed such a collection of carcasses.

Rounding a bend in the rocky path, he took his jog down to an easier lope to conserve energy. The trip back to town was a long one, and the authorities had to be notified immediately in his estimation. Whoever the deranged killer was that was responsible for the massacre back there had to be stopped. Life in the outback, he reasoned, was hard enough already without some freak running around and doing that to the wildlife.

Or perhaps it was something more spiritual. Mowan's childhood had been spent listening to the stories the shaman would tell about the gods and peoples from the dreamtime. The thought that perhaps some mystical evil being from the dream world had made its den in the rocks not far from his home town sent a chill down his spine. Mowan knew the stories were nothing more than that, just stories. Still, he couldn't shake the feeling of something supernatural in the rancid smelling air.

A sudden snapping sound like a branch being spilt failed to catch Mowan's attention as he fled, so caught up he was in his thoughts. The creature that appeared directly in his path a moment later captured his attention completely.

The beast was large. A solid mass of furless flesh with the look of rotting meat. Four muscular legs supported a slimy black-green body, easily longer than a car and just as tall. A long, snake like tail stretched back from the body, adding twice again as much length to the streamlined creature. A large crocodilian maw headed the monster, long and smooth, with teeth the length of fingers. Crushed between those ghastly jaws was the neck of a sheep, its head and body hanging dead, its hooves dragging on the ground next to the massive claws of its killer.

That was what concerned Mowan the most out of the situation. Dragging meant movement. The monster was slowly stalking forward, its clawed feet digging into the pebbled ground. The weight of the prey dangling from its mouth was nonexistent to the powerful sinewy neck of the creature.

Doing his best to keep calm, Mowan backpedaled away from the frightening beast. However, his panic betrayed him and weakened his footing. He suddenly found himself sprawled backwards on his rear, the abrupt movement of which incited the creature to action.

Dropping the sheep carcass, it surged forward with lightning speed. Teeth shining white in stark contrast to its black tongue, it grabbed hold of Mowan's shoe and yanked hard.

The scream of terror that ripped from his throat hardly seemed to be coming from him. Kicking and struggling for his life, Mowan managed to pull his foot free of his sneaker and with speed he didn't know he possessed, he ran. He ran hard and fast and before he knew it he was already running through the bloody remains of the monster's previous kills. The thumping in his heart was the only thing he heard, the smell of death only fueling him to greater speeds as he ran for dear life.

Past the creature's den, down a rocky path he flew, nothing getting in his way. Fissures in the rock meters wide proved no obstacle as he hurtled over them. His feet slamming against the earth, Mowan shouldered his way through a thicket of brambles and found himself at the edge of a ravine. Wide as a highway but only a few meters deep, he wasted no time in sliding down the side to reach the base.

As he hit the bottom, a black shadow flew over his head. Landing easily on the other side, the gruesome beast circled around and stared down at him with predatory eyes from the edge of the cliff.

The look in those awful eyes paralyzed Mowan. Grey as steel, they sliced into him like knives. The clacking of claws on rock that really could slice him to pieces restarted the flight instinct in him. Stumbling to his right, he fell to his knees after a few steps and, in shear panic, he rolled under the lip of rock. The thump of a heavy weight a second later signaled the beast's rapid approach as it made another leap, this time landing on the floor of the ravine.

Squeezing back as far as he could, Mowan found the crack he had stuffed himself into to actually be fairly deep, putting what he hoped would be a safe distance between him and whatever the thing chasing him was.

The little light there was filtering into the crevice disappeared when a large, snapping maw wedged itself into the opening. Huffing and hissing, the creature's putrid breath suffocated Mowan, causing him to gag in revulsion. Fighting another urge to vomit, his hand scrambled over a sharp edged rock. Taking it up, he lashed at the monster's face as best he could, jabbing the sharp edge into its nose.

Jerking back, the creature withdrew from the hiding spot. Almost sobbing with relief, Mowan watched the beast's feet circle around as it paced the area outside of his crevice.

"Oh, thank you god…" he sighed as he watched the monster's clawed feet retreat from his field of vision. "It'll give up soon and be on its way," he reassured himself, the real hope of getting home alive granting him some self control.

That control left him in a yelp as the monster once again thrust its snout into the fissure. Jabbing again with the rock, he beat at the slavering jaws with all the might he could muster.

Unable to squeeze deeper into the crack, the monster's face did something that set Mowan to screaming even louder: It melted.

As though it was made of mud, the muzzle lost its form and structure, expanding into the crack like bread dough rising. Horrifyingly, the toothy maw remained. Black tongue flailing, the mouth opened wider and wider, the deadly fangs scraping against the rock as they bent outwards disgustingly.

Terrified beyond sound, Mowan watched in open-mouth horror as the impossible creature wrapped its tongue around his arm, slimy saliva burning his skin like hot water. The rock in his hand clattered to the ground as he lost all feeling in his limbs. He closed his eyes, unable to watch any longer. A jerk and a cracking sound reverberated in his skull, and Mowan pulled what he knew was now a bloody stump back towards his body.

Only, it was his fingers he felt balled into a fist under his chin, his whole forearm still burning from the monster's spit. Opening his eyes, he cried out in disbelief; the monster was gone.

All he could do was weep for joy as he heard the sounds of men shouting, the crack of gunfire echoing in the ravine. A moment later a pair of brown boots ran past his hiding place, followed by a second pair that stopped right in front of the entrance.

"Oy! You all right in there?"

The sound of the man's voice was raw from years of smoking and about as refined as a warm can of beer, but to Mowan it was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard.

Scrambling out of the hole, he was helped to his feet by rough hands. The flannel wearing man was a stranger, no one he recognized, but Mowan still threw his arm around the large man and began crying out his thanks.

"Calm down, mate! You're gettin' a bit close there." The man held Mowan back at arm's length. "Now, what in bloody hell was that monsta?"

Taking a deep breath to try and calm himself down, Mowan looked up at the top of the ravine at the sound of more gun shots.

"Oy! Bobbie! You see it?" The man at his side shouted up at another man somewhere out of sight.

"No, damn it! Moves' fast. It won't be back, that's for sure." The out of sight Bobbie called back.

"It was a god."

"What?" The rough man asked, a confused look on his face.

A far off look in his eye, Mowan cradled his acid burned arm to his body and repeated, "That was a god. A bad god. I dunno who, but that was a bad god."

"Bah, ya' talkin' crazy kid. It's probably some wild beast no one's seen before," The man explained in a less than certain voice. "People are findin' new animals all the time, right?"

Mowan didn't answer. The sudden dryness of his throat and dizziness in his head made that impossible. Dropping to his knees, he fell into a dead faint, the pain of his arm and the exhaustion of his run sapping the strength completely out of him. The muted sound of men shouting was the last thing to enter his mind before losing consciousness.

*

St. John had a serious problem.

No, it was more than serious. It was so extreme he didn't even have a word to describe just how serious it was. The gravity of the seriousness of the situation was so overwhelming, his head felt as though it was going to explode every time he thought about how serious it was.

"Sorry mate, no cash, no beer."

"Damn it! Can't you just, I dunno, put it on my tab or something?"

"Right, like last time, and then you go and disappear for a year off in America without paying your bill. Your five hundred dollar bill." Fixing St. John with the most pitiless stare any bartender had ever given, he reiterated, "Cash. First."

The red haired mutant's head hit the bar counter with an echoing _thunk_. Briefly he considered using force to get the brew his throat so desperately thirsted for. After all, he was a super villain. Not just your run of the mill every day villain, a _super _villain. He used to be an Acolyte for god's sake. Until that nut job Magneto had disbanded them. After the whole Apocalypse fiasco, an event that he was still completely confused about, Pyro had found himself without a base of operations or well funded benefactor to provide his paycheck.

Which was why he was back in Australia, slumming in his favorite bar.

Favorite bar. That was another problem. Lack of money was the big one, but not being able to just torch the place and take what he wanted was also definitely a problem. Normally, that was exactly what he would do. A little arson, a little alcohol. Perfect combination. But this little saloon was his home! Putting a flame to it would be like lighting his own bloomers on fire.

He had done that before, but this would be like doing it on purpose.

So, there he sat, head down and spirit dejected. He could rob a bank or something, but that would require some kind of effort on his part and he just wasn't in the mood. Destruction and mayhem seemed like more of a hassle than a pleasure recently; things just didn't feel the same anymore.

He had always thought he worked better alone. When he was on the Acolyte team, he had had to constantly deal with the others hampering his style. Colossus never let him burn anything artistic. Gambit was pretty laid back, but heavens forbid you singe his wardrobe. The little speedy guy really just got in the way. What was there to say about Sabertooth? Total sadist.

But now it had been months since the group had fallen apart and he found himself more and more wishing he had the old group back together. Well, maybe not Sabertooth. Or the speed freak. And not the bucket head either. But Piotr and Remy, those were a couple of mates he wouldn't mind terrorizing the town with.

Suddenly, the proverbial light bulb sparked on over St. John's head. That was it! He needed to get the Acolytes back together again!

'Yeah! That'd be the stuff! We could rule the school, thrash the trash, beat the heat! Well, more like treat the heat. Wait, that doesn't make any sense. Damn it, I wanna set stuff on fire!'

Feeling as though he was getting sidetracked, Pyro purposefully stopped himself from going off on a rant and instead asked himself a surprisingly lucid question. How exactly was he going to get the three amigos back together again?

"Cripes," the fire brained man moaned in frustration. He had no money, that most serious problem. Nothing he could offer to entice either of his former teammates to rejoin him. Even if he had the capital, there was an even worse obstacle in the way. The X-geeks.

After the disbanding, Colossus had almost immediately joined up with the crime fighting mutants. The big Russian's younger sister had somehow been involved, though Pyro had no real knowledge of the situation. Somehow Piotr's reasons for being an Acolyte had never come up in conversation.

That Gambit had joined the goody-two-shoes instead of going back to his thieving club or whatever he called it was the real shocker to St. John. He was the last person he would have pegged for being a righteous crusader type. Maybe he was just trying to case the mansion out in order to steal all the expensive junk lying about that ridiculous place, but if that were true, why would a master thief take several months to do it?

So he needed to come up with a plan to entice the two mutants back onto the dark side. All he needed to do was find something that would be irresistible to them both, which would guarantee their return to the good life of crime.

Sitting on a worn stool in front of a stained and faded bar, St. John looked to his left. Fifteen year old television playing rugby and faded wall paper. He looked to his right. Old man snoring into his beer and a dish of nuts. Turning around completely, he looked out the window. Dry, dirty buildings. A mangy dog ran by while he watched.

"Christ, this place is a dump!"

"You don't like it, get out!" The bartender shouted at him.

Pyro almost told the man off. He pulled the lighter from his pocket and _almost _turned the small yellow flame into a massive fireball of burning destruction. Instead, he flicked it closed. Then open.

Closed. Open. Closed. Open.

Click. Clack.

God he was bored. Maybe setting fire to the bartender's house would cheer him up. The pub might have been sacred to him, but the ugly jerk's home wasn't.

St. John got up then, resolved to set something on fire, anything, so long as it distracted him from his depressing situation. Turning towards the door, a voice caught his ear before he could head off on his way.

"Five men yesterday claim to have encountered a strange beast out in the Tanami Desert in the north."

It was the television. The bartender, apparently tired of rugby, had switched to a news program. A pretty reporter was on the screen, her voice and demeanor the usual newscaster grave. Pyro normally couldn't stand the news, unless it was a report on arson, but for some reason he felt compelled to listen to what the young woman was saying.

"One of the men, a young native whose name has not yet been released, was taken to the intensive care center of the local hospital due to what our sources say are severe acid burns. Here we have an exclusive interview with one of the other men, Ron Gromwell."

At that the picture on the television became even grainier then it had already been, the filming quality clearly outdated. A large, fat man came on to the screen, his flannel shirt sleeveless and the akubra hat on his head stained.

"It was big and green," the man spoke with a thick accent, his unrefined face clearly excited. "Like a big lizard, but tall, tall as a man. I've been 'round a few gators in my time and it looked nothin' like a gator."

The man's face changed then, it looked tight, as though he had just had an unpleasant thought.

"Me and the boys, we were just takin' a walkabout, enjoying the natural beauty of the land." His words sounded false even to St. John's mind; the man still had a gun belt around his waist. "Anyways, we were out and about, when all of a sudden we hear this screamin' voice, and we all about nearly jumped out of our skins. We rush over to this little dip in the ground where we think its comin' from and there it is!"

The man held his hands wide in front of him, "A monsta, shoulders this big! Had its head stuck in the ground, giant tail swingin' in the air. So, we had our rifles with us, for protection of course, and we started shooting! Not sure if we hit it, but it pulled its head out, big mushy-looking thing, and ran off faster than a bolt of lightning."

The channel feed switched back to the reporter then, the man's face framed in the corner of the screen. "The four men claim the young injured man was inside the hole the creature was digging in. Unconscious and wounded, they immediately took him back to civilization for treatment. Many skeptics question the validity of the claims that a 'monster beast' could be responsible for this incident, most believing it to be some kind of cruel hoax. However," the screen switched to some poor quality images of footprints in dirt, "the witnesses took several photographs of the area, including these pictures of what are as of yet still unidentified animal prints."

Back to the female reporter the channel went, her voice severe. "One theory put forth concerning the nature of the creature that stands out above all others is the possibility of mutant involvement. Australia has thus far managed to avoid most of the troubles that the rest of the world is experiencing concerning mutant-related crimes and vigilantism, but this reporter asks, 'has our turn finally come?'"

'Our turn,' the phrase echoed in Pyro's head. 'Our turn…'

For the second time that day, St. John experienced a moment of eureka. He recklessly jumped to his feet, overturning the bar stool e he had been sitting on. "That's it! A mutant problem! I have ta create a mutant problem!"

"What the hell are you shouting about you dingbat?" The very frustrated bartender shouted at the now wildly cavorting young man.

In a flash Pyro had grabbed the bartender's shoulders from across the bar. Shaking him back and forth, he cried out, "I know what I gotta do now! I'm going to Tanami desert!"

Hooting and hollering madly, he literally capered out the bar door, leaving behind a confused and disheveled bartender to curse his luck for ever serving a young red head his first beer.

* * *

Here is my first attempt at an X-Men: Evolution story. Sorry it is so short, but I just wanted to post this now while I was thinking about it. I actually wrote the first half of this almost a year ago, but I never did anything with it and it has been just sitting idly on the shelf.

Well, now it's going to be used in what I hope to make a weekly updated story. After all, short chapters have no excuse not to be posted quickly, right?

So, if you want to give me some encouragement to continue and hopefully improve my skill, just review. It only costs you a moment.


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